


Smile, It’s Summertime

by calistear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-11 18:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15321177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calistear/pseuds/calistear
Summary: "It's the summer of 1999, and I've just kissed a boy."Note: This fic is technically unfinished since I discontinued writing it, but the final chapter I posted can be read as the proper ending of the story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO NOT SMOKE, guys. Seriously. If there’s one thing you’re going to get out of this fic other than Johnlock stuff, it’s that smoking is terrible for you and your relationships.   
> Now that we’ve got the health and safety stuff out of the way, this fic is dedicated to two of my friends, who introduced me to Sherlock in the first place and encouraged me to write this fic.

It’s July 13 and Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know where to light his cigarette.

He’d do it in his usual spot (the pavement by his house) but his older brother is taking a one-week break from work, and Mycroft is bound to jeer at his dependence on cigarettes. He can already hear the taunts — “Oh, little brother, you’re really a teenager now, aren’t you?”

He has to pick another location: somewhere he rarely visits, somewhere that’s not his usual type of place.

Sherlock eliminates anywhere indoors, because even though he doesn’t really care about strangers, somebody is likely to escort him right out of the building. He needs to find somewhere outdoors where it’s easy to hide in plain sight.

And to hide in plain sight, you should cloak yourself in the natural environment of the place.

The park, with its tall trees. Of course.

It’s not just the trees that provide decent cover, but the screaming kids, too. Mycroft would never guess. And even if he did, Sherlock wouldn’t care. Probably.

The day is sunny and tucked into Sherlock’s jeans pockets are a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He sails past the security guard and into the park with these implements and barely concealed glee.

His watch reads 12:08 in the afternoon, which explains the amount of families having picnics on the grass and under the shade of the trees. They all seem to be eating relatively near the two children’s playgrounds, so Sherlock slips into the shadows formed by the trees, away from the children. He sits down, making sure that any view of him is obscured by the thick tree trunk against his back.

From his pockets, he pulls out his cigarette pack and his lighter, and takes out a cigarette. After putting it between his lips and lighting it, the routine that follows is familiar and wonderful.

Sharp inhale, gentle breath, exhale.

Smoke drifts out of his mouth as he breathes out, curling into the air.

He does it a few times, and probably would’ve done it more had it not been for the snapping of branches and the appearance of a boy.

The boy is blonde, looks about sixteen or seventeen, and is warily eyeing Sherlock’s cigarette. He’s wearing a green T-shirt, clean sneakers, and a frown on his face. His eyes shift to Sherlock, and judging by the prolonged yet unfocused way he makes eye contact with him, he’s wondering about Sherlock’s eye colour. It’s not the first time someone’s wondered, so he gives his standard answer to his unspoken question.

“Heterochromia iridum,” he tells the other boy, who blinks and says, “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock points to his eyes and repeats himself, which he hates doing. “Heterochromia iridum. It’s an eye condition. Depending on the light, my eyes seem to change colour.” When the boy doesn’t say anything, he quickly follows it up with, “You were wondering about my eyes, right?”

The boy finally finds his voice. “I – okay, just a little. But that’s not the thing I was wondering about the most.”

“Really? Because you seemed fixated —”

The boy gestures towards the cigarette. “I was wondering if it’s legal to smoke in a public park.”

And that’s when Sherlock really snaps into full concentration. The boy’s tone is wry and amused, but his frequent worried glances at Sherlock’s cigarettes suggests otherwise. Contradictions have always interested Sherlock, because he enjoys making sense out of things.

_Logic states that if A equals B, and B equals C, then A must equal C._

Therefore, if the boy is a mess of contradictions, and contradictions are interesting, then the boy must be interesting.

Sherlock sits up straighter and chooses his words carefully. “Legal, illegal – why does it matter? It’s all very boring. Except for murder, maybe.”

He waits, and hopes, because reactions are the crucial point in an experiment – and not just the scientific ones.

The boy shrugs his shoulders, clearly unfazed. “Murder is interesting, I’ll give you that.”

Brilliant.

Sherlock immediately springs to his feet, offering his non-cigarette hand to the boy. “Sherlock Holmes.” The boy’s eyebrows raise a little at the eccentric name, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“John Watson.” He shakes Sherlock’s hand, and now _he_ has a name – John. Common.

Now Sherlock doesn’t know what to do; social situations have always been a struggle for him, mainly because most of them have ended with the other person storming off insulted and angry.

He does what comes naturally to him and tells the truth. “I...” He nearly stutters, _don’t stutter_ – “...need to find an ashtray.”

They both wince as the howls of a child ring through the park.

“There’s probably an ashtray nearby,” says John. “Probably outside the park.”

“Away from the screaming children,” Sherlock agrees, taking another drag. He tests another hypothesis: even though he turns his head away from John, the smoke blows towards him anyway. Oh well. “Let’s go.”

 

The walk across the park is one of the best and the worst he’s ever had. On one hand, John can’t seem to grasp the idea of walking in step (or maybe that’s Sherlock’s fault for having such a quick pace). On the other, though, he’s openly smoking in a park, the right side of his mouth is turned up in a delighted smirk, and nobody’s saying anything about it. Not even John.

And then someone does: a man in his mid-forties, with a little girl – presumably his – rolling around on a picnic blanket. No wife, no ring, no visible signs of homosexual tendencies: he’s alone.

And maybe, _maybe_ , Sherlock could’ve found something deep inside him to empathize with the man, because he knows how it feels like, but he’ll never know, because before he can even try, the man speaks. “God, you’re a lunatic. Smoking in a park? Do you have any respect for the kids?”

Sherlock harnesses his I’m-a-bloody-teenager attitude and responds with his natural language: sarcasm, nice and fluent. “Well, of course I do, I’m tolerating their ruckus and giving them an example of both adolescence and health management.” He doesn’t even stop walking.

“Sherlock,” he hears John mutter behind him, quietly. He ignores him for now; John requires at least eighty percent of his attention and the man is occupying more than that right now.

A main course is nothing without dessert, so Sherlock decides to end the brief conversation with a serving of snark. “And _you_ don’t seem to have any respect for them, seeing as you’re subjecting them to your voice.”

John speaks louder now. “Sherlock, we have to go.”

Sherlock turns around, walking backwards, and lifts the cigarette towards the man like a toast. Sharp inhale, gentle breath, exhale. Smoke blows out of his mouth. In that moment, he’s a dragon, a loud-mouthed fire-breathing dragon.

John, apparently, doesn’t see it that way. “I think the man hates you.”

“A lot of people do.”

Silence. Sherlock knows how to shut down a conversation he doesn’t want to enter.

They walk out of the park together. Well, John walks: Sherlock waltzes, artfully shielding his cigarette from the security guard’s view. He takes a final drag and stubs it out with a flourish on a rubbish bin.

John just stares at him. “How old are you?” His voice isn’t mocking, just incredulously curious.

“Sixteen. Why?”

“You talk like you’re a twenty-eight-year-old professor and act like you’re a ten-year-old.”

Curious, curious.

They’re finally side-by-side and just walking. Sherlock doesn’t really know where they’re going, but he’s looking for an opening to say something. He’s got a trick up his sleeve that could either diminish or solidify their friendship. Or maybe that’s just him being dramatic.

But John, he finds out, is brilliant at small talk. (Well, he’s not entirely sure if being brilliant at useless small talk is something to brag about, but he lets it slide.) They have the inevitable conversation about school: they’re both in the sixth form, preparing for their A-levels. Sherlock is a chaotic violinist in the orchestra, and John is a less chaotic rugby player on the school’s team.

They talk about subjects, and for once, Sherlock isn’t bored by discussions of school. He manages to find an opening:

“Oh, ’course you take biology. You want to be a doctor.”

John doesn’t need to say anything; his face conveys a thousand words already. “Okay, how did you know _that_? My mum doesn’t even know that.”

Sherlock always loves this part. There is something about thinking out loud to an attentive audience that appeals greatly to him, and what’s even better is that his thoughts are usually right.

“You told me you play rugby, and this fits with the distribution of your weight and the way you carry yourself. But there’s just one exception: your handshake, firm but comfortable grip, not a hard grip like other sports players. Proud stance, gentle but steady hands – you’ve got a clear moral compass and you want to do good in this world, you don’t flinch or back down at injury or possibly even danger, and you’ve got precise and nurturing hands that you’ve got to put to good use. Doctor or veterinarian, but my brother’s always jabbered about balance of probability, so – doctor.”

He’s surprised that John hasn’t interrupted him at all; most of the teenagers he deduces have a habit of ruining the moment by cutting in with their opinions.

An awestruck smile makes its way onto John’s lips. “That’s actually amazing. You got all that from a _handshake_?”

“And the fact that you looked at my cigarette a lot.”

“Still amazing.” A pause. “Can we go to a sandwich place or something? I’m starving.”

Sherlock thinks about the cigarettes and the lighter in his pockets, and how his blissful smoking session had been interrupted. But then he thinks of how the interrupter was – is – interesting enough to capture his attention and pique his curiosity. He thinks of how the same interrupter is one of the only people to willingly maintain a more-than-decent conversation with him.

“’Course,” he says.

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re sitting on the bottom step in front of a shabby building, sandwiches and drinks in their hands. Sherlock had skipped breakfast that morning, so he’s ravenous.

“Got any siblings?” asks John, dusting crumbs off his lap.

“The most annoying brother in the world. You?”

“A sister in uni who’s throwing away her brains for parties and girls.”

Sherlock doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, so he settles for, “That’s a stupid thing to do.”

“She never listens to me when I tell her that. She’s wasting her life.”

“Older siblings are always like that.”

A pause – well, it’s not really a pause, but more of a beat of silence, because the conversation hasn’t stopped; it’s just taking a break.

As expected, John is the one who picks it up again. “Is your brother like you?”

“I hope not.”

An intake of amusement from John. “I mean, does he have your...thing? Where you can just _know_ stuff about people?”

A sigh from Sherlock. “Yes, he does. But he uses it for his work. I just do it for kicks. And people take his deductions well, but everybody’s told me to piss off.”

“Except me.” Is that pride in John’s voice? “I think it’s cool. You’ve got to teach me.”

“It’s just observing things and making logical inferences about them.” The response is nonchalant enough, but Sherlock’s mind is whirring. John isn’t telling him to piss off, he isn’t telling him to go away. He’s in awe. He’s not just a contradiction to himself; he’s a contradiction to the rest of the world. _John Watson_.

Something in Sherlock’s mind seems to _click_ , and it’s this click that sends a thrill of energy through his body. It’s rather like being high on nicotine, but sharper and clearer. The feeling is electric, and he wonders if this is what it’s like to have a friend. He’s never felt it before.

If John _is_ his friend.

What do you call people who eat sandwiches with you after knowing you for less than an hour?

He’ll have to think about that later.

 

Sherlock’s cell phone chimes.

He sighs, takes it out of his pocket, and tosses it to John, who promptly catches.

“Good reflexes.”

“Er, thanks?”

“I bet it’s my brother.”

John flips the phone open, and presses ‘view’. “ _Mycrotch Holmes_ says you’ve been gone out for too long.” He looks at Sherlock. “Is your brother actually called Mycrotch?”

The mention of his pettily clever nickname for his brother makes the corners of Sherlock’s lips curve up in a smirk. “I wish. But no. He’s actually called Mycroft.”

He sighs, and stands up, and so does John. “I’ve got to go. My bad.”

“Hang on a sec,” says John, fiddling around with the phone for a bit, before handing it back to Sherlock. “There, I put my name and number in.”

Words flow into Sherlock’s mind: _bold, forward, practical, wants to see me again_. The last one stands out in all its hopeful beauty.

He acts on that one. “Want to meet up this week?”

“God, yes.”

Sherlock mentally snaps a photo of his new acquaintance-turning-friend (?) for further deductions. Blue eyes so dark they could be mistaken for brown (not a deduction, get your head straight), neatly ironed clothes, clean sneakers. John’s an active person, and sneakers are the fad of the decade, so they really should be dirty. But they’re not, so John must have a good relationship with his mother (balance of probability, not sexism), which is interesting, considering that he hasn’t told her about his ambition of being a doctor.

“I’ll text you,” he tells John. Oh, wait, one more thing. “It’s the fourth day of the summer hols for you, right?”

“Yeah. How did you even —” John laughs a little. “Just tell me.”

Launch time. “You’re bored – or you were, at least. Everybody goes to the park for a purpose. The git with his picnic, me with my cigarette. Normal people would get on with what they came for and ignore smoke, but you decided to investigate. Obviously you didn’t go to the park to investigate something, but the second something interesting happened, you wanted to find out what it was.”

John raises an eyebrow, half-skeptical. “But why the fourth day? That’s a pretty lucky guess.”

“I never guess. People always give up after three.”

He’s already walking away, leaving the blonde boy standing with wide eyes that hold an emotion he can’t quite figure out. He turns a little and lifts his hand up in a wave, and John grins and waves back.

Interesting, interesting.

Screw Mycroft. He deserves some nicotine.

 

As usual, Mycroft is annoying.

The minute Sherlock pushes the front door open, he feels something whisked from his backside – his cigarette pack, taken by a skilled hand. Childish.

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes loudly through his nose. “How _old_ are you?”

“Twenty-three,” says his brother, stepping out from behind the door, “and I have healthy lungs.”

Mycroft is tall – taller than Sherlock, which infuriates the younger Holmes brother to no end – and carrying a long, black umbrella.

“How long have you been standing there?” Sherlock snatches the pack from Mycroft’s hand.

“Twenty-four minutes, brother mine. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Archaic,” scoffs Sherlock. He kicks off his sneakers and tromps up to his room. “Are you supposed to be Mary Poppins or something with that umbrella?”

“I’d rather be Mary Poppins than a smoker.” Mycroft’s calm tone makes Sherlock want to punch a wall.

“Oh, come on, everyone knows you haven’t given a toss about my health since we were kids.”

He shuts his door, self-conscious of how much of a teenager he’s being. The day had been good and he isn’t planning to let Mycroft spoil it with discussions about his newfound usage of nicotine. It isn’t even _newfound_ ; he’d been doing it for nearly five months now. He’s not going to stop now, though – older brothers leave you alone eventually. First-hand experience.

Mycroft’s voice, silky and eloquent, finds its way through the door and into Sherlock’s room. “You were walking more briskly than usual. Why?”

“Make your deductions, you’ve always said you were the smarter one.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Actually, don’t. Your voice is annoying enough.” Before Mycroft has a chance to be offended, or bring up his smoking habit again, he actually relents and says, “I think I made a friend.”

Mycroft manages to splutter out, “A _friend_? You _think_?”

Sarcasm initiated. “Good to know your ears work.”

“You’ve never had a friend since you were six. What’s his name?”

“Why, you going to find him on the Internet?”

A childhood tradition is reinforced as Mycroft walks into Sherlock’s room without knocking. “Maybe. Have you heard of Google? A simple search will take you to millions of relevant links. I have a feeling it’s going to be very popular. Now, his name, please.”

“John Watson, Mummy,” snaps Sherlock, too determined to kick Mycroft out of his room to argue. “Maybe _Google_ can tell me how to get your annoying brother out of your room.”

Mycroft takes the hint and leaves; Sherlock takes a cigarette and lights it.

Sharp inhale, gentle breath, exhale.

His mind is sharper, his pulse elevated, and God, it feels good to be able to think with such clarity again.

John Watson. What a person.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly? John is a criminally underrated writer.

It’s July 16 and Sherlock is busy taping a slip of paper onto his lighter. The slip is tiny, and has his name and email on it. He’s heard of far too many stories where lighters get misplaced and aren’t available when a cigarette is desperately needed. 

His phone is flipped open in front of him on his desk, since John said he was arranging plans for them to meet again. They had messaged back-and-forth for a while, but it was more businesslike than friendly. Sherlock prefers to save real conversations for face-to-face occasions, and it seems like John prefers this too. 

A message from John comes in, and Sherlock presses ‘view’. 

**The park at 2?**

Sherlock quickly types a reply. 

**Yes, that works. - SH**

Send. 

The memory of their first meeting replays itself for the nineteenth time. Each time it replays, Sherlock always manages to find something new that makes John Watson more intriguing than before. He’s rather looking forward to their rendezvous: it’s going to contribute to a new experiment he’s come up with. During the tenth replay, Sherlock had realized that he had felt _happier_ than usual while talking to John. If this persists in their further meetings, Sherlock will – well, what will he do? What will he _be_? Happy, definitely. But what kind of happy? And for how long? 

Sherlock forces his brain to shut up; he has no patience for the unanswered questions his mind keeps spinning out at him. Emotions are the worst things to exist, always complicating matters. Mycroft had drilled it into him long ago that caring is a disadvantage and should be only used sparingly. Kind of like drugs, Sherlock reflects, but as he ignites a cigarette, he knows he’s not exactly the most qualified to talk about using drugs sparingly. 

Footsteps sound outside the door, and he recognizes them as Mycroft’s (steady, deliberate, light). There’s a knock. Ever since yesterday, Mycroft’s gotten into the habit of knocking. 

“Are you eating breakfast today?” Mycroft’s panting. 

Sherlock straightens a little, because catching Mycroft in a compromising situation is golden. “You’ve either gone for a run or had sex– or something close to it. Since you’ve never had a girlfriend since that older woman a year ago, I’m placing my bets on the former.”

He can hear the scowl in Mycroft’s voice. “What if I’m dating my assistant?”

“Oh, Anthea? You’re not, because you’ve been stuck at home for the past few days. But give her some time. If she wasn’t even partially interested she would’ve been way more than your secretary.” Sherlock’s met Anthea once, and her body language had suggested suppressed attraction towards his brother (though of course he isn’t going to mention it now; Mycroft doesn’t deserve that much). Seeing a good-looking person having a crush on his brother had been an unforgettable and shocking experience. “So, a run, then! Trying to burn off the seven pounds you’ve gained since I last saw you?” He’s mocking Mycroft, but amusedly instead of coldly; something’s changed his attitude, and he’s not entirely sure what. 

“It’s six pounds,” snaps Mycroft defensively. 

Sherlock puts out his cigarette on the ashtray on his desk and gets up from his chair. “Don’t blame me – it _looks_ like seven.” He pulls the door open, nearly barging into his brother as he makes his way down the stairs. “Coming for breakfast, _brother mine_?”

He turns around and takes a mental snapshot of Mycroft’s face. When he imitates him later, he wants to do it accurately. 

 

The dining room, bathed in morning sunlight, is a foreign place for Sherlock, who’s skipped breakfast for the past week or so. Mummy is busy making eggs, and when Mycroft enters with a glare at Sherlock, he flips open a newspaper. 

Sherlock wants to smoke, but the mixture of Mycroft’s cold disapproval and Mummy’s piping-hot wrath isn’t something he’d like to test. He knows it’s bad for his health, he knows that nobody really likes it, but damn it to hell, _he_ likes it, and he’s going to do whatever he wants. It makes him less bored. It makes him awake. It makes him alive. 

Nearly sighing in relief at Sherlock’s appearance, Mummy hands him a plate of scrambled eggs on top of toast. “I thought you were starving yourself.”

“It’s all good – I’m not planning to die anytime soon.”

Mycroft coughs, and it’s Sherlock’s turn to glare at him. “Want some medicine?”

“I’ll manage, thank you. Though I think it would do me some good if I took you to the park today. Don’t bother saying you can walk there; it took you half an hour to come home after reading my text from yesterday.”

Sherlock grunts his agreement and takes a bite of toast. Under normal circumstances, he would have regarded the offer with suspicion, but the circumstances are not normal – there’s John. The offer was a thinly-veiled excuse to meet the person Sherlock had deemed his friend. Sherlock actually doesn’t care, because both he and Mycroft have always had a deep appreciation for fascinating things. And John Watson is fascinating. 

“He has a lovely blog, you know. I’ve only read one entry, but he writes well. You know, brother, I always thought you liked the scientists, not the writers.”

Sherlock would’ve made a witty remark, but struck by a sudden realization, his head snaps up to look Mycroft in the eye. “Just a sec – I didn’t tell you I was meeting John at the park.” If Mycroft had been snooping around in his phone, he swears he will just about lose it. 

“When a boy’s demeanor is energetic like the sun instead of —”

Sherlock scowls and rolls his eyes. Mycroft knows he hates pretentious poetic language. “Cut the Shakespearean bull—”

“Sherlock,” Mummy warns him, taking his plate and dumping it into the sink. 

“—sh – crap, I mean crap.”

Unfazed, Mycroft says, “Thank you. Comparing me to Shakespeare is flattering. But I believe that there is a new trend happening. To put it mathematically —”

“The correlation between my happiness and interactions with John Watson is positive,” interjects Sherlock, abruptly. He’s not going to let Mycroft take credit for something he’d figured out himself. “That doesn’t explain the park.”

“It is the only logical place for you two to meet.”

Sherlock decides to drop it. “Don’t come into my room. I’m doing research.”

And he’s back upstairs again, only six minutes after he had come down. He locks the door, plops onto his chair, and fires up his laptop and a cigarette. (He really should ration them out, but he’s trying to approach life from a hedonistic angle.) He tests this ‘Google’ search engine Mycroft had mentioned, and, satisfied, enters ‘John Watson blog’ into the browser. Click, LiveJournal, scroll, first entry. It’s dated over a year ago – March 31, 1998 – with the title ‘Why am I even doing this?’. There are only a few lines of text:

_> > Today’s my fifteenth birthday. Instead of riding the bike Mum gave me, I’m starting a bloody blog nobody will ever read. Fun fact: turning fifteen makes you go insane. _

This is brilliant. It’s a goldmine woven through twenty-nine words. He’s got even more data now – _sense of humor (dry)_ , _writes for personal instead of social reasons_ ,  _needs catharsis_. It’s always the last one that stands out. Why would John, an athletic person, full of happy chemicals on his birthday, choose writing a blog over biking? It’s got to be psychological. There’s a reason therapists always suggest writing feelings down to their clients. John doesn’t seem depressed, though, and hadn’t exhibited any signs of self-harm. People have their ups and downs, and maybe writing a blog makes these emotional rollercoasters easier. 

His hypothesis is proven correct as he scrolls up and through the other entries. There’s John gushing about his girlfriend Sarah, John ranting about how badly his rugby team played, John complaining about his sister Harry, John reflecting on his (now former) relationship with Sarah. Reading John’s detailed narrations of pieces of his life with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, Sherlock can’t believe it when he realizes that he’s actually interested in another person’s life. Sure, everything that John had written about is mundane human life, but the way he had written it is close to electric. Each word has weight and each paragraph has meaning. John really does know how to write with pathos, something Sherlock had always struggled with at school. 

Studying the dates, Sherlock notes that John’s posting is inconsistent, depending on how eventful his life is. More than one entry is titled ‘I’m bored’, and the text underneath is a ramble about the desire to write but the inability to write about anything interesting. 

There are no comments on his blog at all. His breath hitches in his throat. Apart from Mycroft, he’s the only person to read John’s blog. He doesn’t feel guilty; the blog is a public one, so he’s not exactly snooping. 

So what does he feel?

The closest word he can find for it is pride, and even that seems a little bit off. 

He slams the lid of his laptop shut.

Feelings are infuriating.

 

Finally, one o’clock rolls around, and after shoving his lunch into his stomach, Sherlock hops into Mycroft’s car. It’s sophisticated and black, like Mycroft’s umbrella. 

As they drive to the park, they only have one exchange. 

Sherlock feels his brother looking at him through the car mirror. “Does he know that you have a dependency on cigarettes?”

“Life’s too short. Shut up,” mutters Sherlock, turning to face the window, and the rest of the ride is silent. 

They pull up by the park entrance at 1:55 exactly. Sherlock gets out of the car and Mycroft rolls down his window, saying, “I’ll be here at five-thirty.”

“You don’t want to meet John?”

When Mycroft brushes him off, Sherlock nods and walks away from his brother, but once he’s about fifteen meters away from the car, his pace quickens and he begins to stride instead of stroll. Where picnicking families once were is nothing but a vast expanse of green grass. There are still a sprinkling of people lounging under the shade of the trees, but Sherlock’s eyes are locked on two people sitting on a bench. One of them is a girl with her blonde hair in a ponytail. She’s chatting away on her phone, drumming her fingers on a frisbee lying on her lap. The other, sitting on the other side of the bench, is John. 

Sherlock makes an immediate beeline for John, who stands up when he sees him. “Afternoon, John.” The girl on the phone jerks her head towards him at the sound of his voice, before laughing and muttering something Sherlock can just about hear to the person on the phone. She looks about nineteen. 

“That’s my sister,” says John, inclining his head towards the girl. “Harry. Give her a minute – she’s pestered me about meeting you.”

Harry hangs up after about thirty seconds. She beams at Sherlock. “You’re Sherlock! So, are you guys official?”

“We’re not dating,” John tells her. At the same time, Sherlock asks, “So, are you and Clara official?”

Both John and Harry stare at him: John in confusion, Harry in shock. 

“I was listening to your phone call,” continues Sherlock, cheerfully, “and you really like saying her name, don’t you? Seven times in forty-five seconds – that’s quite a lot. Fiddling with the frisbee, laughing a lot, grinning even though she’s not there. I’ve seen girls with tilted heads and finger tapping like yours. And that’s when they’re with their boyfriends. I think you’re in love.”

Harry folds her arms, neither admitting or denying it. “Do you have experience with love?”

“No, but –”

“Really? ’Cause you’re right.”

She stands up and turns to a flabbergasted John. “He’s mad smart, Johnny. I’ve gotta meet Clara, now. We’re a thing. We’ll talk about it later, ’kay?” Tossing the frisbee to her brother and an amazed grin to Sherlock, she skips away. 

John glances at Sherlock. “She _never_ warms up to people that easily.”

“Really? She’s just assertive. It’s not like I charmed the pants off her or anything.”

“Yeah, you didn’t, Clara did, apparently.”

They laugh, because they both know that Sherlock didn’t mean it that way. John holds up the frisbee. “Wanna play?”

 

Sherlock sucks at frisbee. 

The wind is practically mocking him, he can never seem to throw at the right angle, and he swears the frisbee is intent on traveling either way too far or not far enough. 

“This is boring,” he complains, as he sends the frisbee flying towards a tree again. John knocks the momentum out of it and picks it up from the ground. “Let’s play a game, then,” he suggests. 

“I like games,” says Sherlock, perking up a little. Ever since he was a kid, he and Mycroft had always played games together. It wasn’t out of brotherly love – they just didn’t have any friends, so they played and played and played. Cards. Cluedo. Chopsticks. And those were just the Cs. 

“Good. So let’s say I throw a frisbee and you miss. Then I can ask you a question and you’ve got to answer honestly. If you catch it, then you just throw it back.”

Sherlock immediately realizes he’s at a severe disadvantage. “Not fair, you’re a bloody rugby player, all you need to do is run and—” (the frisbee flings itself into his stomach and drops to the ground) “—sod off!”

A mischievous grin appears on John’s face. “Alrighty then! Got any pets?”

_Phew_. Just casual questions, then, nothing personal. “No, but I had a dog when I was little. He was my only friend.”

Sherlock throws, and John manages to grab it before it skids on the grass. John throws, and Sherlock, blessed with height, easily plucks it out of the air. Sherlock throws again, and it sails through the air, towards a kid eating a sandwich. 

“Damn,” laughs John, running over to retrieve it. The moment he comes back, Sherlock asks, “Do you get along with your sister?”

“Not really. She screws up a lot. Father always said she was hopeless, but it only began after she came out as a lesbian, so maybe he was talking about her worth as a daughter.” John’s voice is bitterer than a peach pit. Sherlock’s mind sifts through the blog entries he had read that morning. He hasn’t memorized them word-for-word, but has several trigger visuals that allow him to recall the exact text, date and title of each one. None of these entries havementioned John’s dad. 

“Is he dead or estranged?” he blurts out. 

Thankfully, John isn’t offended by his directness. “Hey, not your turn.” Sherlock easily catches the next one, before purposefully chucking the frisbee behind him. “Is he dead or estranged?”

With a half-amused laugh, John relents. “Okay, okay. Well, to me, he’s both. When he died, I only shed a few tears and that’s it. He, uh, made Harry...self-destructive.”

When Sherlock fumbles his next turn, he notices that John’s questions have returned to less personal ones. 

“I don’t know who’s winning,” he says. 

“What?”

“How do you win this game?”

John looks at him incredulously. “You’re confusing games with competitions.”

A blizzard of unlinked thoughts — _different perspectives_ , _definitions_ , _brother vs. friend_ ,  _objectives_ . The point of John’s game isn’t to win, because you can’t. The objective is to learn about other people. 

He straightens a little and throws. It falls in front of John’s feet.

“Do you get good grades?”

“Only in the interesting subjects. You know. Bio, P.E., English.”

They seem to be getting the hang of this, because the next few turns go by without a word. 

After a while, it’s John’s turn to ask. “Got a girlfriend?” _He cares about these things._

“Not really my area.” Did John just raise an eyebrow?

Trying to prevent further queries, Sherlock quickly botches his next throw. “How about you?”

“Nope.” _No mentions of Sarah; he’s moved on completely._

John. “Worst fear?”

“Losing. Not just in games. I’m scared of losing lighter, my mind, my life – and just _life_ in general.” John nods thoughtfully as he takes aim.

Sherlock. “Why haven’t you told your mum that you want to be a doctor?”

“We’re a little tight on money, and I don’t want her feeling hopeless.” _He knows what it’s like to feel hopeless._

They keep going.

On and on and on.

And at some point, they’re not even trying anymore. John’s throws are starting to imitate Sherlock’s, Sherlock’s fingers keep conveniently slipping away from the frisbee, and it’s painfully obvious that they’re doing it on purpose. Deliberately.

John hurls the frisbee towards the bench. It lands with a _thump_. “Are you getting bored of this?”

“Slightly. I’ve got one last question, though.”

Sherlock lobs the frisbee towards a tree. It collides into the trunk with a _crack_ and promptly breaks. He doesn’t notice, and neither does John. Clearing his throat, he drags the words out of his mouth. The sun shines in his eyes, hiding John’s expression. “Are we friends?”

John grins. “’Course we are, idiot.”

Sherlock lets the insult slide, because it’s not an insult at all. They _are_ friends, then.

_Contradictions, affirmations,_ _friends after two meetings_ _._

 

Five-thirty arrives all too soon. 

“Are all people idiots to you?” John had asked. 

“Some aren’t. They just do brilliant imitations of idiots without realizing,” Sherlock had quipped in reply, which is why they’re nearly stumbling towards the entrance, laughter wracking their bodies. 

Sherlock spies Mycroft standing by his car, dressed in a suit even though he’s on holiday. “There’s my brother. Early uni graduate, up-and-coming businessman, and future queen of England. All by the age of twenty-three.”

John chortles as they approach Mycroft, whose height and standoffish demeanor make him seem twice as tall as John. 

“Mr. Watson. Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft extends his hand, which John shakes with slight confusion. Sherlock sighs; everything to Mycroft is a business meeting. Narrowing his eyes at his brother, Mycroft says, “Sherlock, would you mind getting in the car first?”

“I would,” answers Sherlock, folding his arms. There are plenty of things about himself that he wants to keep away from John. 

Mycroft shifts his drilling gaze to John, whose own eyes flash with understanding. Sherlock studies his friend carefully. John’s shoulders are drawn back, his chin raised almost defiantly, and there is no trace of fear as he speaks calmly to Sherlock. “It’ll only be a minute, Sherlock. I’ll time it if you want.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sherlock quickly amends, ducking into the car. “See you soon, John. I’ll send you a message.”

He shuts the car door. Then he laughs, and pulls a cigarette out of his packet. 

If John isn’t intimidated by Mycroft, then he’ll have no problem keeping up with Sherlock. 


	3. Chapter 3

It’s July 21, three in the afternoon, and Sherlock is standing on the Watsons’ pavement, having jumped out of the car before it fully stopped. Since the frisbee meeting, he and John have hung out four more times, each at a different location. Each time, Sherlock manages to surprise John with his deductions, and each time, John manages to surprise Sherlock with his common sense.Today, Sherlock’s been able to draw his mother away from her book and get a ride to John’s place, where they’ll go...somewhere. It doesn’t matter. As long as they talk, anywhere is more than fine.

“You could have gotten yourself injured, Sherlock!” chides Mummy, getting out of the driver’s seat to join her son. “This is why you haven’t gotten a license, you know. You’re too reckless.”

“No, I haven’t gotten a license because I don’t give a toss about the test,” retorts Sherlock, making his way to the front door.

A woman’s scream of “damn you!” halts his progress, and Mummy raises a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock lies, recognizing the fiery vocals of Harry Watson. John’s voice, equally livid, pierce the air moments later. “You should, uh, go home and write your book.”

“Don’t you want to go to the shopping centre or something? It’s three kilometers from here – don’t you want a ride?”

It doesn’t take her a lot of persuasion, however, and the car pulls away from the pavement. If there’s one thing her children have taught Mrs. Holmes, it’s that you should listen to people’s requests to handle situations alone.

After precisely two minutes and forty-four painful seconds of listening to Harry’s curses and John’s shouting, Sherlock concludes that the disagreement is never going to end. He presses the doorbell, sending a loud chime through the house. The yelling subsides.

The door opens, but it’s not John or Harry. It’s a woman with Harry’s eyebrows and John’s nose – their mother. She looks young in relation to her children; she can’t be more than forty. Children at a young age, dead husband, eye bags, bickering children. Sherlock’s own mother would call Mrs. Watson an “unlucky woman”.

Sherlock nearly pushes past her, but he needs to make a favorable impression. “Hi.” What an empty word. “I’m Sherlock. John’s friend.” Despite everything happening, there’s a hint of pride in his voice. He has a _friend_. “Is he here?”

Before Mrs. Watson can answer, there are footsteps and a loud whispered conversation. Sherlock strains his ears.

Harry. “...just mind your own business!”

John. “You’re my _sister_!”

Harry. “That doesn’t mean my personal life belongs to —”

She sees Sherlock, standing awkwardly next to Mrs. Watson, and her speech falters. “Hey, Sherlock. Sorry about that. John’s pretty riled up.”

Sherlock cuts in the moment he sees John’s mouth opening to retaliate. “Want a cig?” He pulls out one from his pocket and offers it to her.

With a muttered thanks, Harry takes the cigarette and storms away, but not before pulling the middle finger at her brother. Immediately, Sherlock grabs John’s upper arm as if he were the offender and drags him out of the front door. (Are those biceps?) He snaps out of it (all humans have biceps, idiot) and continues tugging John away from his house.

After Mrs. Watson shuts the door, John wrenches his arm from Sherlock’s grip.

“For God’s sake, I’m fine! I’m okay. I am.”

“I never asked,” Sherlock observes dryly, but he has to find a way to calm John down, so that he can process the events with a clear head. “Do you want a cig, too?”

“Stop talking to me like I’m stupid. And no, I don’t want a bloody cigarette.”

“You sure? It forces you to breathe.”

John takes a deep breath, and then exhales. It doesn’t work. “Y’know, sometimes I really hate —”

 _New idea, quick – think, Sherlock, think!_ “We’re going for a walk.”

Exasperated, John quickly matches Sherlock’s quick pace. “Where?”

It begins to drizzle. “Anywhere.”

 

They walk and walk and walk, and Sherlock’s mind can’t stop thinking, because it keeps replaying John’s terrible, terrible shouts, over and over again. Before, it had never crossed his mind that John Watson – stoic, mild, well-mannered John Watson – would ever house and harness such a ferocious temper. Now he has to reconstruct the model he’s carefully built of his new friend. It’s rather fitting; the light rain’s washing away the picture he’s painted of John.

He glances at John through his peripheral vision, trying to gauge his mood, but with no success. Finally, he gives up and just asks directly. “Feel better?”

John glares at him for a moment, as if the answer should be obvious, but quickly softens and replies calmly. “Yeah.”

They keep walking, though at a slower pace.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you don’t get along with Harry,” Sherlock says, carefully attempting to figure out why John had gotten angry.

“This whole thing just made it worse.” John kicks a pebble on the sidewalk, sending it skittering into a bush.His head turns to face Sherlock. “Do you know where she was going?”

Sherlock had figured it out minutes ago. “Clara’s house. She was all dressed up but didn’t put any makeup on. Makes things less...messy.”

John claps him on the back, shaking his head. “As usual, brilliant.” He exhales loudly, but it’s more of a sigh than a huff. He straightens a little, and swivels his head left and right. “Where are we?”

“No idea. We were just walking,” Sherlock admits. “If you want to go near the park, there’s chips.” John perks up a little, but then frowns. “No, seriously, where _are_ we?”

 

After about half an hour of trying to retrace their steps (John had been too preoccupied with Harry to care, and Sherlock had been too preoccupied with John to remember), they’re on a path that John confidently assures Sherlock will take them to the park without crossing John’s house.

John rolls up the sleeves of his baggy shirt. Sherlock notes that it’s the same shamrock-green shirt he wore the very first time they met. “Do you think I’ll snap at Harry if I see her?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, having reached that conclusion a while ago.

“You’re probably right.”

Sherlock knows he’s probably right, too.

The chips store is full of people queueing by the counter and cramming into chairs. Well, it’s not exactly just a chips store, but Sherlock’s gone there plenty of times only for chips and water.

As John goes in and joins the end of the line, Sherlock notices a group of people smoking. _Nicotine would be nice._ No, you’re about to have chips. And John’s here. Dragging his eyes away from the group, Sherlock pushes the door open and nimbly slides into a seat before a gaggle of girls in sundresses can claim the tiny table for themselves. As he watches John inch slowly towards the cashier, he notices that his friend’s eyes follow the girls. Sherlock’s never really cared about girls; they’re too misleading and emotional for him. In that moment, however, he’s also fixated on them, but for reasons different than John’s, who seems to be especially drawn to a girl with dark hair and a purple dress. John spies him looking, and the two exchange a silent conversation through raised eyebrows and upturned mouths. Well, if John fancies the girl, Sherlock wants to see him try to flirt.

Minutes later, his wish comes true. He watches in amusement as John ambles towards the girl with an impressive amount of confidence and begins talking to her. Body language is key to deciphering people; while another girl seems to be charmed by John, the girl in the purple dress is definitely not. Her arms are folded defensively over her chest, she’s leaning away from him slightly, and the disgusted look on her face is unmistakable. As John excuses himself and walks towards Sherlock, the latter can’t help but admire the dignity John still had left in him.

“Girls,” laughs John, a tinge of pink coloring his cheeks, but otherwise he seems unfazed. He slides onto the chair opposite Sherlock’s and sets a carton of chips onto the table. “You never really know with them.”

“Maybe you should start going for boys,” suggests Sherlock, without thinking. It doesn’t take him long to realize that he’s only half-joking. Before he can say anything else, however, John nods thoughtfully and says, “Maybe you’re right.”

Sherlock pops a chip into his mouth. “I’m always right.” His eyes travel back to the girl who had rejected John. Come to think of it, she resembles him a bit. Dark curly hair, skinny, taller than the rest of her posse. And Sherlock’s always had a fondness for the color purple.

He stores the thought for further observation before dismissing it, because the chips are amazing.

The conversation turns to John’s blog.

“I can’t believe you know my life story,” remarks John.

“And Mycroft.”

“And Mycroft. How’d he find it?”

Sherlock thinks about Mycroft’s sudden interest with his life, and how pressing he’d been about John. “He’s a stalker. And I think he’s managed to blackmail his PA into dating him. Put that on your blog.”

Laughing, John shakes his head. “Seriously, though! You two know people you haven’t even met.”

“Sarah. The first few times you mentioned her, I thought she was an angel. Then she suddenly turned into a prissy brat with a half-decent face.” He watches John prop his head up on his hand reflectively.

“She was a fine girl, you know, and really nice. But that was it. She wasn’t kind. She wasn’t warm. She was just nice.”

“Boring,” mutters Sherlock. An image of him and a nice-but-boring girlfriend pops into his mind, causing him to frown. “I can think of roughly sixty girls like that.”

“I’m guessing that you haven’t dated any of them?”

“I’ve never dated anyone. And I told you. Girlfriends aren’t really my area. It’s hard to relate to them.” He glances down, feeling embarrassed, and then feeling embarrassed because of his embarrassment.

“Maybe you should start going for boys,” John says, parroting Sherlock’s words from earlier, but there’s a softness to his voice that makes Sherlock look up. The instant their eyes meet, John blinks uncomfortably, and takes another chip. Sherlock bites his tongue, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Had he glared at John? He’s pretty sure he didn’t, but you never know.

After that, when the chips have disappeared, the two of them head outside again. Sherlock fishes in his pocket, his fingers brushing against several coins and his lighter before pulling out two pounds’ worth of money. He offers the notes to John. “For the chips.”

“It’s okay.” John’s voice doesn’t waver, and his eyes don’t linger on the money, so Sherlock slips or back into his pocket. “Sherlock?” Sherlock mentally braces himself for any uncomfortable questions, prepared to deflect and avoid them. “How’d you know about the chip place? I don’t think you come here often.”

Sherlock thinks – no, he _remembers_. Lonely summer holidays. Mycroft refusing to leave his uni even for his little brother. No friends to make him laugh. No boyfriend to make him smile. No sleep to clear his head. No happiness to lift his spirits. “I was in a bad place last year.” And he really was, because anybody who knows Sherlock Holmes would know that it’s never a good idea for him to be alone in his room, accompanied by only a sense of boredom and his over-exhausted mind. “I didn’t want to live.”

 _“What?”_ They’re walking back the way they came from, but John stops. “Hang on —”

“I didn’t want to die, though. I wanted something impossible.” His voice is hollow. He’s speaking on autopilot. “So I decided to get out of the house and walk. I walked for half an hour and it was already sundown. Mummy was looking for me.” _Sherlock, you’ve been gone for ages._ “I told her I was buying dinner.” _I know. I’m getting dinner. Eat without me._ “I didn’t want to eat. I hadn’t eaten much during that time. But I got chips, and they made me feel better.” He isn’t on autopilot now; everything was – and is – turbulent. “It’s pathetic.”

John hasn’t said a word throughout Sherlock’s explanation, and he doesn’t need to. He’s not quite tall enough to comfortably wrap his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, so he settles for the back instead. Sherlock stiffens momentarily at the unfamiliar warmth against the knobs of his spine before relaxing into the touch.

It’s...different.

And not unpleasant.

It’s warm and kind and definitely not unpleasant.

_It’s okay, John._

_I’m not alone anymore._

The words are there, stuck in his throat, but he refuses to say anything that would make John Watson remove his arm from around him. Mycroft, despite years of educating Sherlock about life when they were younger, neglected to mention how lovely human contact felt.

About halfway to John’s house, Sherlock realizes that John hasn’t taken his arm away. They’re conversing as usual, but there’s something warmer to it.

John is speaking animatedly when, midsentence, an affectionate smile spreads across his face.

They don’t mention the smile, nor do they mention Sherlock’s long arm tentatively circled around John’s shoulders.

 

Sherlock doesn’t want to let go, but they’re reaching John’s neighborhood and, soon, John’s house. The sun is setting.

He’s never felt more not alone in his life. If friends do this all the time, then Sherlock wants to get a hundred of them. Mycroft can prattle on about how touch is only a temporary respite from life’s troubles, but Sherlock can just sit there without a care in the world.

With a sudden jolt, he realizes that he’s leaning slightly into John, who’s doing the same. It’s normal, then. He also realizes that he’s being hypersensitive about this whole arm-wrapping affair. _Enjoy it. It’ll probably never happen again._

A pang of remorse shoots through him as they arrive at the Watsons’ doorstep. Like ripping a Band-Aid off, he takes his arm away from John’s shoulders, feeling the absence of flesh immediately. John does the same. A whirlwind of emotions sweeps through Sherlock’s mind like a sandstorm, clouding his vision and his judgement. He needs to sort things out tonight.

“I...” Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. Do normal people acknowledge things they do, or are some actions better left unspoken about? He just looks at John, rather helplessly.

“We should go to the chips place again,” offers John, inserting a key into the front door. Okay, then. Unspoken. “It was really good.”

He unlocks the door and twists the knob. “Hey, Sherlock.”

Sherlock meets his eyes, struggling to maintain the usual strong look in his eyes. He’s like a bird who’s scared to fly, capable yet so vulnerable. That’s what he feels like, anyway. “Yes, John?” he whispers.

“Thanks for making me feel better.”

Sherlock blinks once, and manages to speak at a proper volume again. “Thank you for making me feel better, too.” Mycroft’s right. He did feel better at the time. But it was only temporary, because now he can’t organize whatever’s going on in his brain right now. He clears his throat. “Don’t go pouncing on your sister when she gets back.”

“Oh, I won’t.” John opens the door. “Besides, if I want to be angry, I know I’ll have my faithful reader there for me.”

“Of course,” Sherlock assures him, and John gives him a smile and a “night, Sherlock”.

Sherlock mirrors John’s tiny, delighted smile as the door closes. They’re planning to see each other again tomorrow, and he can’t wait.

_Night, John._

 

When Mycroft picks Sherlock up, he’s surprised to find that his brother climbs into the passenger seat instead of the back.

“You’re sitting in the front,” he observes.

“And you’re early from work,” Sherlock responds, absentmindedly. “And you’ve kissed Anthea today. Lipstick never goes away easily.” Beginning to drive, Mycroft chances a glance at Sherlock, whose response had been accurate, but distracted. Sherlock’s head is turned to face the Watsons’ house, and as they pull away, curtains are drawn back and then there’s John, waving at Sherlock.

Mycroft nearly swerves the car into a tree as Sherlock waves back and, when the window is out of sight, slumps against his seat with unfocused eyes.

“Talk to me,” Mycroft says to him, and he means it. Sherlock, however, doesn’t even bother looking at his brother as he shakes his head.

“No.” His response is immediate and adamant.

“Why not?”

“You’re a year too late for that.”

“Tell me about today, then.”

A pause.

“Fine. But I’m trying to retain every single detail, so don’t interrupt.”

John’s argument. John buying chips. John flirting. John getting rejected. Conversations about John’s blog and John’s old girlfriend. Walking home with John.

Sherlock doesn’t mention his conversation with John about last summer. He doesn’t mention the fact that he and John put their arms around each other. Let Mycroft wonder why his description of the walk home is less detailed than the rest of the day.

But Mycroft isn’t thinking about the lack of details during the walk home.

He’s thinking about Sherlock’s body language, still with confusion and relaxed with good memories.

He’s thinking about how Sherlock isn’t even smoking right now, even though he hasn’t had a hit for several hours.

He’s thinking about the residual glow ofhappiness on Sherlock’s face, and how it undoubtedly came from John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, the ending is bittersweet, which I think only happened because I was listening to "Wings" by Birdy on repeat.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s July 22 and Sherlock _has_ to get to John’s house. He tears into Mycroft’s office, where Mycroft is idly sipping tea with one hand and twirling his umbrella with the other. Both brothers raise their eyebrows at the sight of each other. It’s five-thirty. Much too early for Sherlock’s dinner meeting with John. 

“Where do you want me to take you?” asks Mycroft, taking his feet off his desk. It isn’t a difficult deduction; the only thing Mycroft has that Sherlock doesn’t is a car. (Licenses don’t matter to Sherlock. He’d gladly drive his own car without a license.) 

“John’s,” Sherlock answers. He looks almost comical, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, half-tied trainers, and perpetually tousled hair. “Please.” 

Mycroft is already halfway towards the door. “Did anybody die?”

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

As they drive, Sherlock lights his cigarette (sharp inhale, gentle breath, exhale), and Mycroft doesn’t argue against the smoke that blows into his face. Sherlock then closes his eyes and starts talking quickly. 

“There was a new blog post at five twenty-seven p.m. today. No title. I can’t remember it word-for-word, but on their way back to John’s house, Clara and Harry were holding hands. A group of people – three men, two women – had a lot to say about them being lesbians. There were a lot of insults.”

Sherlock remembers the fury in John’s words: ‘Why would you purposefully go out of your way to make people ashamed of who they are? Why would you support someone who does? What’s happened to the bloody morals people keep preaching about?’

Mycroft doesn’t react much. He just tightens his jaw and tenses his shoulders slightly. “What happened then?”

“Harry took a swing at them. They hit back, and would’ve gotten her nose if Clara hadn’t pulled her away. Harry turned her face, so she’s got a bruise near her eye. Then she and Clara ran.”

“And John’s distressed.”

“Yes, he is.” 

“And _you’re_ distressed.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Which is why you’re rushing to his house half an hour earlier than planned several minutes after reading the post.” Sherlock shuts up after that. 

Trees rush past; Mycroft’s pushing the speed limit. Like yesterday, Sherlock leaps out of the car before Mycroft has a chance to press the brakes completely. 

Mycroft shouts at the figure bounding towards the door and knocking rapidly. “Tell me when you want to be picked up!”

The door opens, Sherlock gives him the thumbs-up, and then the door closes.

 

If John had been blazing with anger yesterday, he’s icily fuming today. After Sherlock had introduced himself to Clara (“Hi, I’m Sherlock, and how’s the Art major going?”) and awkwardly patted the back of a shaken Harry, he had enquired about John. 

“He’s taking it worse than we are,” Clara says. Sherlock can see why Harry’s drawn to her – she’s tough and stoic, with a calm grace about her. 

“She means he’s shut himself in his room,” Harry murmurs. 

Sherlock makes his way towards the staircase, but turns to face Harry and Clara. “Are you alright?”

The couple glance at each other, before Clara nods slowly. Harry touches the bright red patch on the side of her face. “This will heal.”

He nods, deciding to leave them alone, and walks up the stairs. 

“John?” he calls, knocking on the bedroom door. It isn’t hard to find; there’s a sign that says ‘KEEP OUT OF JOHN’S ROOM’. 

After a few moments, John opens the door. “You were quick.”

“Well, I guess so.” Sherlock fights a blush. He _had_ been very quick. “Can – can I come in?” He doesn’t know the etiquette for entering people’s bedrooms. It’s all so complicated. 

“’Course you can.” John’s tone is surprised, as if it should’ve been obvious, so Sherlock goes inside. He doesn’t know where to sit, so he stands against the wall, an awkward mess of limbs and curls. 

He states a fact. “You’re not okay.”

“Amazing, as usual,” John mutters, speaking to the wall, and Sherlock recoils at the lash. 

“I can leave if you like.”

John seems to snap back to life. “What? No.” He looks at Sherlock with beseeching eyes. “Please don’t. I’m sorry.”

He sighs, plopping down onto his bed, and after a while Sherlock drags a swivel chair towards him, stopping a safe distance in case John throws something. “John, I’m really bad with dealing with this kind of...thing.”

John laughs shortly but affectionately. “I know, you idiot. Just be yourself.” He sits up. “My faithful reader.”

“About those people...”

“They’ll probably rot in hell,” John muses, coldly. “But they think that Harry and Clara will.” Sherlock fidgets with the hem of his shirt. John’s wits are sharper when he’s angry. “D’you have a problem with gays, Sherlock?”

“Not at all.”

“See? You’re the smartest person I’ve met. It should be fine. Why isn’t it fine? It’s going to be a completely new millennium next year. 2000. If all the numbers change, then we should too.”

Sherlock scoots his chair closer. “You’re a terrifying writer.”

“Terrifying?”

“Well, ’course you are. I didn’t make my brother drive me here thirty minutes early if I wasn’t terrified you’d do something stupid.”

“Like what? Track the gits down and give them a telling off?”

“Something like that, but replace ‘telling off’ with ‘a taste of my boxing moves’.”

Sheepishly, John mumbles something about how that’s exactly what he was thinking of doing, before speaking clearly again. “How’d you know about me knowing how to box? Did I mention it in my blog?”

“I don’t think so, but it was either that or martial arts, and I don’t see any colored belts hanging here. But you’re a very handsy person. More actions, less —” He’s cut off by the sound of John laughing. “Not exactly the best way to put it, mate.”

“ _Hands-on_ is worse, though. You still angry?”

“No, but I’m glad you came here. Oh – Harry and I are cool, by the way. I mean, our relationship was saved the instant I saw her face and asked who the bastards were.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know if he’d rather have an stable but distant relationship with his sibling like he and Mycroft have, or a close but turbulent one John and his sister have. “How did your parents react when Harry came out?”

John grins. “Finally. The one interesting story I can tell you ’cause it’s not on my blog.”

“You should be a writer.” Sherlock is serious. “You’d make a change. Well, you would, if you cut out all the swearing.” John’s earlier posts had several F-bombs littered here and there, but his most recent one is peppered full of it. 

“Yeah, but it only works if you’re successful. Anyway. Harry. She did it so casually – just slipped it into the dinner conversation. Mum and Dad were arguing about the rarity of his steak – I mentioned he was a git, right? – and Harry just interrupted with an eye roll and said, _For Christ’s sake, the steak can’t uncook itself, stop arguing about things that can’t bloody change._ ” He does an impression of Harry that’s nearly spot on, all sharp intonations and impatience. “Dad got pissed and asked her what she knew about change. I think she was fed up with him at that point, so she didn’t care about what he said.”

The respect Sherlock has for Harry Watson grows by the second. “What did she say?”

_“Here’s some change for you – I like girls more than I like stupid guys like you._ I think Dad would’ve tossed her out of the house if it were legal.”

Sherlock shakes his head. For once, it’s him who’s in awe of John’s words, not the other way around. “I was going to share my own coming out story, but I see that it’s nothing compared to Harry’s.”

John does a double take, all dropped jaws and incredulous eyes. “What? No, tell me! Oi! I didn’t know you were – hey, come closer and tell me, you sneaky prat.”

Obeying, Sherlock sits down next to him on the bed. He’s certain that John hasn’t meant _that_ kind of ‘closer’, but the swivel chair made his arse ache. Besides, the distance between them is perfectly acceptable and carefully calculated – fifty-two centimeters, give or take. “I can’t one-up Harry.”

“C’mon, who was the one prattling about _knowledge for curiosity’s sake_ the other day?” (John had wondered several days ago how Sherlock knew so much about poisons. Sherlock had joked that it was going to be useful someday, before dropping the highbrow line.)

Sighing theatrically, Sherlock begins. “Well, I can see the question written all over you. I had a crush on my best friend once. We were six.”

“You were six and you were a hundred percent sure of your orientation?”

“I didn’t exactly know the term for it, but it was a crush.” Victor Trevor didn’t make fun of his precociousness like the other schoolboys did. They would visit each other’s houses during weekends and holidays to play pirates, eat food, and have fun. It’s rather like him and John, only they don’t pretend to be pirates raiding another ship. “I hate to say this, but Mycroft helped me come to terms with it.” 

_“Mycrotch Holmes?!”_

“The very one. I was about eleven or twelve, and I was complaining to Mycroft that all the boys in my year had crushes on girls but I didn’t. He said I was probably gay. I thought it was just an insult people used, but, well, I guess not.”

He sneaks a glance at John, who seems a little bit surprised, but not shocked. “My parents were like Mycroft. When I told them, they just nodded and smiled and got back to their newspapers. It’s better than balloons and celebrations, I think. Why make a fuss about something that should be perfectly acceptable to the world?”

With a laugh, John lies onto the bed, stretching languidly. “You’ve got this thing where you make everything seem obvious.”

“And you’re the only person who tolerates it.”

“Nah. I like it. Blimey, though. I didn’t think you were openly gay.”

“What, you thought I was in the closet? Well, I am, but only to the blokes at school. Imagine what they’ll do to me. But I’m comfortable with it elsewhere.”

He looks back at John. “Your turn, John Watson. You _must’ve_ had a sexuality crisis. Every single teenager does.” He’s always suspected that John’s a bit queer. 

“Oh, I did.” John puts a hand under his head. “After my father died, I just started experimenting with it. And, well, I realized that I swing both ways.” Sherlock isn’t surprised. “Mum was too tired to have a big reaction. Harry was so happy, because she says she’s suspected for years.”

“She’s very perceptive,” murmurs Sherlock. “She probably figured out I was gay.”

“Yeah, she told me the other day. Said her gaydar was active.”

They laugh. John smiles at the ceiling. “I mean, we’re all a little queer, aren’t we?” Sherlock ponders this statement as he lies down next to John. 

“Yes, I believe we all are.”

 

At six o’clock, everybody squeezes into the dining room. The Watsons’ table is a square that’s meant to accommodate only four people, so five ends up being a bit awkward. 

“Harry and I can share,” offers Clara, dragging a piano stool towards one end of the table, which is laden with potatoes and beef and glasses of water. Sherlock spoons a little bit of each dish onto his plate, and watches in fascination as Harry and Clara go out of their way to give each other food. 

The conversation is mundane, and Harry does most of the talking. Zoning out after the first few minutes, Sherlock finds a new hobby to occupy himself: making little deductions about everybody on the table. He leans towards John, who’s in the middle of chewing green beans. “Clara’s worried that Harry might end up being an alcoholic.”

“Bullocks,” John mumbles. “Harry’ll be fine.”

It goes like that for a while, before Sherlock gets bored. He glances at John, who leans in interestedly. “What now?” 

Sherlock lowers his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Harry has a secret daughter.”

John plays along, face lighting up. “Who’s the dad?”

“Someone from uni, Professor...Anderson.” An ode to his least favorite teacher in the world, who coincidentally is also his main proof that stupidity exists. “They’ve decided to hide the daughter with some penguins in Antarctica.”

Snorting, John nearly drops his knife and fork. “And did you deduce that from the cuticle of her left index fingernail?”

“Spot-on. You’re learning quickly.”

They stifle their laughs by chugging huge amounts of water. 

When Mrs. Watson starts asking questions about Sherlock, he answers them as briefly as he can. He’s sixteen. He’s interested in chemistry. He plays the violin. No sports. John kicks him during the seventh or eighth question, probably because his voice has slipped from polite to a monotonous drawl. 

“Sherlock, you done?” John quickly intervenes. Sherlock looks at his plate, but John tugs at his sleeve insistently. Oh, well, he’s full anyway, so Sherlock obliges him. “Bit not good?” he mutters as they walk through the hallway and up the stairs. 

“Bit not good, yeah,” John agrees, pushing his bedroom door open. “You know, I really want to hear you play the violin.” 

Sherlock shuts the door behind him and, after a moment of hesitation, sits cross-legged onto the circular rug on the floor. “Much as I try not to care about what people think, I’m sure Harry will think I’m trying to serenade you.”

John ponders this, before saying, “Your place then?”

“John, if Harry sees you going to my place, she’ll _definitely_ think I’m trying to serenade you.”

“Damn right. You should’ve seen her face when I told her I was heading to Sarah’s the first time.”

Sherlock swallows uncomfortably at the mention of Sarah. “Why’d you get rid of her?” John’s posts about his deteriorating relationship with Sarah consisted of less actual events and more rants about her character. 

“How did you know it was me?”

_You keep mentioning her._ “It’s in your blog.”

“Right. She got boring.”

“It sounds like _I_ dumped her.”

Elbowing him, John shifts his position on the rug. “Sometimes I miss her, sometimes I’m so glad we’re not going out anymore. I didn’t really feel like dating girls after that.”

“What about the girl in the chips store?” _With the purple dress. Who resembled me._

John looks genuinely surprised. “You wanted me to flirt.”

“Only because I saw you looking at her.”

“Yeah, but just because I find somebody attractive doesn’t mean I’m actually attracted to them.”

There it is: his daily dose of John Watson wisdom. Sherlock, however, is focused on something else. “You flirted because I asked you to?”

“Yeah, and it’s fun, too.” 

_You’re really something else._ “You’re idiotic.”

“But?”

Sherlock relents. “But you’re not an idiot.” 

“’Course I’m not – I managed to become your friend, right?”

Afterwards, as Harry and Clara and Mrs. Watson chat about majors and finance and dating, Sherlock and John are flipping through John’s yearbook. There’s one from 1989, where John is six years old and a rosy-cheeked miniature version of himself. The shaggy hair and deep blue eyes are the same, but six-year-old John has a boyish confidence to him, eagerly showing off his tooth gap to the camera. He’s surrounded by other uniform-clad boys, most of them also blonde, but none of them looking happy to be photographed. 

“Awful uniform” is Sherlock’s only comment, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth betrays him. He frowns, running a long finger over a scratch on (yearbook) John’s chin. “You got into a fight. Somebody with long nails, and who’s shorter than you...” Squinting, he examines the fingers of the other students, all of whom are sitting ramrod straight with hands folded neatly on their laps. “That boy.”

“Monty,” John says, referring to a short kid glaring petulantly at the camera. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure we fought over a toy. I won, by the way.” The way he puffs his chest slightly makes Sherlock believe that his fight with Monty was his first. 

John drags photo albums from his shelves, and Sherlock watches John shrink or grow with every flip of the page. John seems to have a story for every photograph.

“That’s Harry reading her girl’s magazine, and I was trying to read it too.”

“Us on holiday. Dad still loved the three of us at the time – well, I hope he did. D’you like my pudgy cheeks?”

“Me and Harry and her friend Jess. I think Harry fancied her, but my mind didn’t really understand lesbianism.”

When it’s eight o’clock and time for Sherlock to leave, albums and yearbooks and crayon drawings strewn and scattered around the room, John wags a photo at Sherlock. It’s him as a baby. “I’ve shown you my life in photos _and_ words, so it’s your turn next time we meet.”

“Can’t be tomorrow, though, I’ve got to meet my aunt. And on Saturday I’ve got a bloody violin recital. Sunday?”

“Church, and Mum’s thinking of introducing Clara to the rest of her family. Monday?”

Monday works. 

Sherlock phones Mycroft, who takes nearly twice the usual amount of time to reach the Watsons’ house. While they wait, they sit on the outside steps and joke about violin recitals and church masses. 

Mycroft’s car makes a turn and pulls over. 

Sherlock stands up, gets ready to say goodbye, but John startles him by pulling him in for a quick hug, which he reciprocates with equal enthusiasm. (Mycroft will give him hell for this, but he doesn’t care.)

“Bye, John,” he says, mind reeling. “Be nice to your family.”

“Don’t throw your violin into the audience during your recital,” laughs John. “Bye.”

Monday works. But it’s too far away for Sherlock. 

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps the minute he gets into the car. 

“I haven’t said anything,” Mycroft replies calmly, pressing the gas pedal, but the smirk on his face speaks volumes. The smirk fades when he sees Sherlock pulling out a cigarette. “For God’s sake, can’t you save it until we reach the house?”

Sherlock puts it back. “You can’t stop me from smoking.”

“I know I can’t. That’s why I asked John to.”

_“What?”_ He’s never glared harder in his life. “You’ve left me alone for half of my life and _now_ you want to interfere?” 

Mycroft, unafraid, decides to explain. “He doesn’t need to do anything; you don’t smoke around him anyway. Don’t take it out on him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for the rest of the ride and when they arrive home. He doesn’t have to. The way he slams the door is enough. 

He doesn’t sleep until six in the morning, refusing to let his mind shut down. He tears through cigarettes as if they’re fuel, reads countless articles about Eckhard Hess’s pupillary studies, and tries to test those studies with every single memory he has of him and John. 

Biopsychology has never been this interesting to him. Sharp inhale, gentle breath, exhale. An article in the _Chicago Tribune_ dated February 23, 1986. Midnight. New pack of cigarettes. He needs air, so he gets out of his room. 

He digs through cupboards and cardboard boxes for photo albums and discarded notebooks, assembling a pile to show John the next time they meet. 

From his room next door, Mycroft hears Sherlock going up and down the stairs, muttering things about pupil dilation and baby photos. The smell of smoke slips persistently underneath his door and doesn’t stop until nearly six in the morning, when all is quiet. 

Sherlock’s head spins with overexhaustion and hazy thoughts. He practically falls onto his bed. Six o’clock is a new record for him. Sleep, however, doesn’t matter now, because he’s finally sorted out his emotions. 

After analyzing several dozen scenarios in his head, Sherlock has come to the conclusion that if John Watson wants to go beyond platonic, he wouldn’t mind at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research Eckhard Hess's pupillary studies. They're extremely interesting. A good place to start would be [here](http://articles.chicagotribune.com/1986-02-23/news/8601140177_1_pupils-barry-goldwater-mr-hess) .


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Aubergine and Nata Sad: it's what you've been waiting for.

It’s July 26 and finally Monday. John’s coming after dinner, and Mycroft is at work, so Sherlock has the day to himself. He says goodbye to his father at seven o’clock that morning, who comments concernedly on his bleary eyes. 

Somebody Sherlock’s age should really be getting seven to eight hours of sleep every night, but Sherlock is averaging around three and a half. He isn’t too affected by this, although the heavy-headed feeling is annoying. 

Throughout the last couple of days, Mycroft’s been observing him like a hawk, probably writing medical reports about him. _Cause for concern: lack of sleep. Prescription: a solution of scolding, 84% of which must be condescending. Increase dosage to 91% if needed._ It’s annoying, because Sherlock doesn’t need his brother’s attention. He’s been fine on his own and it’s not going to change now. 

Asking John to monitor his smoking, watching him, subtle comments about sleep deprivation – Sherlock is fully convinced that when Mycroft achieves his dreams of occupying a position in the British government, he’ll have cameras recording his every move and Sherlock himself would be pegged as a minor security threat. 

Ignoring his mother’s calls for him to fold his clothes, he slips out of the house. He wants to smoke in peace, in fresh air, preferring the company of strangers over his family. Or, better yet, he could smoke in solitude. 

As night settles into the sky, Sherlock’s still there, sitting on a bench and blowing smoke out of his mouth and nostrils. Ash is littered on the pavement. Nicotine’s an interesting thing. Everything looks sharper and his mind is more alert, but he’s also more relaxed than ever. First John, now nicotine. Sherlock isn’t addicted to his cigarettes; he’s addicted to paradoxes that shouldn’t work but somehow slip through life’s rules and end up working. 

Another side effect of nicotine: philosophical views of life. 

He’s not even aware of the time. He just sits there idly, smoking and making useless deductions about other people. That girl’s a fake blonde, that boy’s parents are divorced, the elderly couple are only married because they have nobody left. It’s all very negative, but it’s fun. 

His lighter is resting on the space of bench next to him, ready to ignite another cigarette should he need it. 

Then John shows up. 

Sherlock’s face brightens as he sits up straighter and studies John. He’s wearing a red shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, which suits him. He has a smile on his face, which also suits him. 

“Hey,” they both greet each other. John’s eyes linger on the cigarette for a bit. “Your mother’s worried,” he says, wrinkling his nose at the smell of smoke, “but I thought you might get out to smoke.” As he draws closer to Sherlock, he frowns and bends down a little. “Your eyes are a bit red. You look like hell.”

_You definitely don’t, though._ “At least I don’t feel like it,” Sherlock quips. “Mind if we stay here a while?” 

John shrugs, sitting down on Sherlock’s right. “How’d your recital go?” he asks. Ah. That. 

“I didn’t throw my violin at anyone,” Sherlock replies, carefully, “but I might’ve hit Mycroft with my bow.”

John studies him for a bit, before they dissolve into giggles. Mycroft had criticized Sherlock’s performance, earning him a whack on the shoulder and an indignant “at least _I_ play an instrument!” Sherlock’s father had laughed. That was probably why Mycroft hadn’t tried to argue too much. 

Oh, right. Bloody Mycroft. 

“A little bird told me,” Sherlock starts, stealing one of brother’s many phrases, “that he wants you to stop me smoking.”

John averts his gaze, swallows a little, and shifts slightly on the bench: three common sighs of discomfort. “He did.”

“What did he say?” When John doesn’t answer, he prompts, “Is he paying you?”

John just looks at him, exasperation written all over his face. “If this is you trying to ask me why I accepted, then you’re on the wrong track. Not everything’s about personal gain, Sherlock – there’s something called kindness in the world and, if I’m honest, you need to study that more.”

_Don’t flinch don’t flinch don’t flinch._

Sherlock doesn’t flinch, but not reacting makes it worse; John’s words sting. He doesn’t say anything, just takes another drag to occupy his mouth before he can snap at John and make things worse. 

“Look, Sherlock, Mycroft and I are just worried about your health. You barely smoke around me, anyway. But he asked me because he loves you, even if he doesn’t show it.”

“Did he say that?” Sherlock has a thousand reasons to be incredulous. 

John chuckles a bit. “No, I’m pretty sure he said ‘keeping my brother healthy surpasses the difficulties he creates’ or something.”

That sounds more like Mycroft. 

“Why’d you accept?” To Sherlock, that’s the real question. 

“I wouldn’t want to entertain the possibility of seeing you in hospital,” John says snobbishly, mimicking Mycroft’s sophisticated airs. Sherlock snorts as he switches back to his real voice and continues, “You’re my friend. Friends are supposed to do this kind of thing.”

Sherlock attempts to squash down the warm feeling glowing inside him, without success. “That’s...good.” What a boring, meaningless word. Ruefully, he stubs out his cigarette on the underside of the bench and drops it onto the pavement. He’s had more cigarettes than usual over the last few days, and he wants to conserve his packs. “Well, I suppose we’d better get home before we give my parents heart attacks.”

It’s just past seven. 

The route back home is familiar to Sherlock; the bench is practically his. He’s always gone there alone whenever he needs a hit. It wasn’t until recently that the idea of going there and back with someone else had entered his mind. 

“How did you know where I was?” he asks. He notices John slipping his hands into his pockets – the picture of confident nonchalance. If _he_ does that, he’ll look like a sulky mass of limbs going through an emo phase. 

“Mycroft told me,” laughs John. “He probably watches you sleep.”

The two of them are the only people walking on the pavement; it’s a quiet neighborhood full of old people. They talk and gesture and make fun of each other. Sherlock’s mind rewinds to the first time they met (July 13, roughly 12:10 p.m.) and replays the very first walk they had together, out of step and incredibly awkward. Now, walking side-by-side is natural for the two of them. It’s only taken them two weeks to become close. 

Close. 

He doesn’t know how it happened, but they’re way too close now. Physically. 

A couple of seconds ago, John had come up with a joke, Sherlock had been nearly wheezing with laughter, and the air seemed brighter. 

They’d made eye contact.

Sherlock’s only figuring out now that John has really long eyelashes. They’re light and fair and mesmerizing to watch when he blinks.

They stop walking. 

“Have I got something on my face?” John asks, looking up at Sherlock, who’s gazing intensely at his eyes.

Or, rather, into them. 

“Your pupils,” Sherlock mutters, mind whirring with possibilities. “They’re dilated.”

“Yeah?” The streetlight above them casts fluorescent light onto their faces. “Yours, too.”

They’re about five centimeters apart, and the proximity makes Sherlock’s heartbeat thud in his ears. 

Neither of them look away. John moves towards him a little more. _Four._ It’s not an exact distance, but it’s not important. What’s important is standing right in front of him right now, eyelashes and sleeves rolled up and pupils blown wide. 

John’s eyes drop momentarily to rest on Sherlock’s lips, before trailing upwards again. His head lifts up. _Three._

“Are we going to talk about this?” Sherlock whispers, gravitating closer and closer to John by the second. _Two_.

John shakes his head, his voice barely audible. “Later.” _One_. 

And then he leans up, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s. 

_Zero._

There are fireworks in his mind. 

They’re too loud. 

They’re crackling with sparks of fear. 

_What are you doing? You’re inexperienced and you don’t know what to do. You need to get out of there._

He intakes sharply and stiffens, caught off guard by the sensory overload, and John immediately draws back, concerned. “God, I’m sorry. I know it’s your first —”

_Damn it._ Both of their cheeks are heated with embarrassment and something else. “No no no – shut up.” Sherlock’s talking to John and he’s talking to himself, too, and both of them listen to him when he grabs John’s shoulders and pulls him towards his mouth again. He closes his eyes and tilts his head this time, doing whatever comes instinctively. 

_Don’t think. Just feel._

He feels their noses brush, feels John’s hand against his neck to steady the two of them, feels John’s lips graze Sherlock’s bottom lip with tenderness and warmth. Then the fireworks are back and Sherlock relaxes into the kiss, threading his fingers through John’s hair and whining softly from the back of his throat. He’s never wanted more in his life; not even the euphoria produced by nicotine can compare to this – this supernova of intoxicating chemicals electrifying him. It feels like falling, but knowing he’s falling into the arms of somebody he trusts. His hands – _their_ hands – are roaming but chaste, never traveling below the shoulders. For the first time in his life, he allows his emotions to lead the way. 

There aren’t any fireworks in his mind this time: just moonlight and John’s lips. 

After their breathing becomes shallower and the kiss deeper, John gently releases himself. 

“Sherlock, you okay?” he asks, taking the taller boy’s hands. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “More than that.” He smiles, undertones of shyness laced into it, and ruffles his already disheveled curls. “I’ve really wanted to do that.”

“Me too. You learn pretty quickly.” 

“The results paid off, I hope.”

John squeezes Sherlock’s hands. “They did. A lot.”

“But there’s always room for improvement, so we’ll have to do it more often.”

Laughing, John nods enthusiastically. “If you want to, we need to get back to your house first.” Neither of them can wipe the grins off their faces. _It’s the summer of 1999, and I’ve just kissed a boy._

_And he wants to do it again._

 

Mycroft hears giggles from outside the house and opens the front door. 

“Sherlock, have you been drinking?” he calls, but then frowns. No, that isn’t right. Even though Sherlock is slightly out of breath and his hair is messier than a bird’s nest, his speech isn’t slurred and he isn’t staggering. Something else has happened. 

Mycroft studies the glow in Sherlock’s grin, the joy in his eyes, and the waves of energy rolling off him. 

Then his eyes travel downwards, to John and Sherlock’s intertwined hands. 

Oh. 

_Oh._

“Hey, Mycroft,” John calls, not letting Sherlock’s hand go. “Sorry we’re late.”

“I’m sure you had a good reason,” Mycroft says dryly. Sherlock’s smile doesn’t fade as he looks at his brother. “I’m taking John to my room, Mycroft. We’re not going to have sex.”

John snorts, playfully elbowing him. “Promise,” he says to Mycroft, before Sherlock tugs at him and they’re off, running up the stairs and filling the corridor with their gleeful laughter.

Mycroft watches them go, dumbstruck, and stays stock still until the door of Sherlock’s room clicks shut. 

He’s never seen Sherlock look at anybody the way he looks at John Watson. 

 

“Want some water?” Sherlock holds up a glass towards John. He doesn’t bother bringing empty glasses down, so there are several of them filled with varying amounts of water. 

John accepts. “Your room stinks. How often do you smoke in here?”

Cheeks reddening slightly, Sherlock grabs another glass from the table and takes a sip. “At least once or twice a day.” A pause. “Does this mean we’re a couple now?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds soppy.”

“Sherlock, you’ve just had your first kiss at night, with nobody around, and it was a bloody good kiss, too. I’d say that’s about as soppy as you can get.” 

_Hmm, fair point._ “I should warn you that Mycroft is probably drafting a speech right now.”

John’s already anticipated this. “Yeah, the whole _break-his-heart-and-I’ll-break-your-bones_ kind of thing.” 

“And I should warn you that I’m prone to overthinking things, and then oversimplifying them, and end up being a mess.”

“Well,” John says, resting his hand on top of Sherlock’s, “it’s only a mess if there’s nobody there to pick up the pieces. How’s that for soppiness?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but runs his thumb along John’s knuckles in spite of himself. “What about after summer?”

“We don’t live too far away from each other. We could manage.” John speaks bravely, but an edge of doubt draws a final word out of his mouth. “Probably.”

_Well, if you want the actual probability in numerical terms..._ Sherlock shoves the idea out of his head. “This isn’t rational, John. There are an infinite amount of things that could go wrong, but...” He trails off, wondering how to put his thoughts into words. 

“But?”

“But you’re worth it,” Sherlock tells him, seriously. “I’m not being soppy. I mean it.”

The worried look in John’s eyes softens as he presses his lips to Sherlock’s hand. “Things don’t have to be rational to be good for you. Oh, God, we actually sound like a couple, don’t we?” He and Sherlock giggle lightly. Sherlock doesn’t bother keeping the affection out of his voice. “Never stop surprising me.”

“Oh, I don’t plan to,” answers John, eyes on Sherlock’s mouth. 

Round two. 

 

When Sherlock and John have to say goodbye, it’s with a hug, not a kiss. It’s partly because Mycroft is standing on the porch with a stern expression on his face. It’s also partly because their lips are already bright red from the amount of snogging they’ve had throughout the past two hours. 

“See you tomorrow, idiot.”

“Git,” says Sherlock, fondly. “Don’t be late. I’m sure Harry and your mum also have speeches ready for me.” He throws a glance towards Mycroft, who clears his throat and nods to the faded grey car waiting by the gate. 

John reluctantly untangles himself from Sherlock and climbs into the car. The two boys wave at each other, John steadily ignoring his mother’s questions until the car starts and they’re off. 

Watching John’s car roll out of sight, Sherlock suddenly realizes that he’s had his feelings reciprocated, he’s learned to temporarily let his emotions guide him, and he’s had his very first kiss – all in the span of a few hours. _More_ than one kiss, actually. It doesn’t hit him like a blow to the stomach, but dawns on him with increasing clarity. _I had my first kiss. With John. Today._

From behind him, he hears Mycroft clear his throat. “Yes, Mycroft?”

For once, his brother can’t seem to find words to express himself. The urge to tease Mycroft’s inarticulacy is tempting, but he remembers John’s words – _“…he loves you, even if he doesn’t show it.”_ He turns around to look Mycroft in the eye, absorbing snippets of information as he does so. _Mycroft also adjusted himself slightly to face me; he’s been watching John’s car leave, too. Head tilted, furrowed brows – curious about John, maybe worried, too. About John? No. Looks me straight in the eye, concerned look doesn’t disappear: he’s worried about me._

“You might’ve noticed, but I’ve been happier since he and I met,” he tells him, quietly, answering his brother’s unspoken questions. “We both know it could end badly, but we’re fine with that.” 

Partly reassured, Mycroft nods. “I have my misgivings about this situation, but I’m pleased to hear that.”

“Sod off, you’re happy for me.” 

The sides of Mycroft’s mouth lift a little. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m sure Mummy and Dad’ll faint when they hears that _both_ of their sons have dates,” Sherlock observes wryly, before walking back into the house. “I’m going to sleep.”

“At nine-fifteen? John’s doing wonders for your health.”

Scientifically, Mycroft isn’t wrong. The ‘happy chemicals’ in Sherlock’s brain have been released, through his conversations with John and, of course, kissing. Kissing, Sherlock realizes, is extremely beneficial for a person’s mental and physical health. _Hydration: thirsty (for water) after kissing. Sleep: pleasantly drained after kissing, earlier sleep (may change depending on certain events)._

However, he knows that Mycroft still isn’t fully at ease about his relationship with John, so he simply tells a different truth. “My eyes are a bit bloodshot, so I’m sleeping earlier. Night, Mycroft.”

After changing into his pyjamas, Sherlock draws back the covers of his bed, but hesitates for a moment. He opens his laptop and waits for it to boot up. 

When it does, it doesn’t take him long to pull up John’s blog. A small smile appears on his face as he reads the newest entry, posted eight minutes ago:

_> > Get some sleep, you clever bastard, so tomorrow can come faster. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Special thanks to my friends, who’ve listened to my rants about how complicated kissing is, and who’ve provided a lot of great ideas. I’m sorry it took so long to write this. Thank you for putting up with me screaming about being unproductive.  
> 2\. I’ve realized that UK summer holidays start in late July and usually last six weeks. In this fic, however, it begins in mid-July, meaning that they have seven whopping weeks of no school. Let’s ignore that.


End file.
